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Foreword   Prologue   Chapter One

Chapter Two   Chapter Three

On the last day of April 1258, the barons of England attended parliament in full armor. Although they left their swords at the door, it did not allay King Henry the Third's alarm. He yielded to their demands, which became known as the Provisions of Oxford. But Henry was a slippery king and the struggle between his barons and him did not end there. Several years later -- to strengthen their legal position -- the barons agreed to let King Louis of France render arbitration on the provisions. Earl Simon de Montfort would be the baronial spokesman, a powerful advocate and a forceful man. Alas, a hole in the road near Catesby caused his horse to throw him. Simon fell and broke his leg -- and the accident probably changed history -- for he was unable to travel to France. Without Simon de Montfort in attendance, King Louis went beyond his arbitration. Thus, on the morning of 23 January 1263, he handed down the Mise of Amiens. The mise was in Henry's favor on every point. The Provisions of Oxford, which Henry had sworn to observe, were declared null and void.

It meant civil war.

Prologue

The barons were strongest in the Western Marches of Wales. It was a rugged country, and not all the land was subdued. Prince Llywelyn of Wales was beholden to none but himself. His Welshmen often raided the Anglo-Norman strongholds. So the Marcher Barons were a rough, war-ready lot, independent and jealous of their rights. Perhaps that's why most of them supported the baronial cause.

Yet not all the barons and earls in the Western Marches had fallen away from the Plantagenet King Henry III. In Pellinore Fief the people loved the king, because their lord Baron Hugh de Clare did. Tonight the baron celebrated in a cruel but quite normal medieval fashion.

In the main castle yard huntsmen dragged a young bear to the baiting post. Bonfires raged, throwing lurid light upon the scene and upon the gathered crowd. Peasants in their dirty smocks shouted and jeered at the bear. The knot of nobles in their finery, their eyes bloodshot from countless jacks of ale, laughed and placed their bets. Young dog boys held a pack of vicious brutes, huge dogs with slavering fangs and heavy collars of spiked iron round their necks. Nobody, after studying the hounds, would dare put their coins on the bear.

"That's what the king should do to de Montfort!" shouted a huge old knight. He was bald and had white bushy eyebrows. He towered over everyone here, and everyone feared him. He was Sir Philip, the Seneschal of Pellinore Castle.

Lady Alice de Mowbray shook her head. She pitied the poor bear. It bawled in fear as the huntsmen knotted its heavy leather leash to the baiting post. The Baron and Sir Philip had captured the bear two days ago. The Baron boasted endlessly about it. He'd waded in with only a net in hand, jumping upon the beast and wrestling it to the ground.

Alice de Mowbray sneered as she slipped away from the growing throng. She wore hunting clothes and a dagger with a jeweled hilt. She was twenty, with blonde hair and a face many considered beautiful. Tonight was her long sought after opportunity.

Around her, stable boys shouted in glee. Bloody-handed cooks bellowed advice to the two young dog boys. Grooms gave odds to each other. Herders booed the bear. Maids, scullions, masons, pages, squires, the priest, goose-girls, men-at-arms and the knights, one and all awaited with eager delight the coming fight. Castle life was filled with boredom. Stuffed together in the narrow corridors and the small rooms, people quickly tired of one another. Only a handful of nobles and churchman read books and minstrels soon told all their good tales. Hunting was fun, so was fighting and chasing girls...Castle life, with its endless dull routines and chores soon become boring in the extreme. Thus anything, and everything, that fought that boredom was cheered and lusted after. Cruelty didn't matter. In fact, if an event was cruel it was more interesting and better able to arouse people's delight.

Alice de Mowbray no longer found interest in cruelty, not even cruelty to a young bear that would some day grow up into an old and ferocious beast and probably raid the sheep herds. He was a captive, taken from his home and bound in a place he hated -- Pellinore Castle.

Despite her breeding -- she was a Lady -- Alice spat on the ground. She too hated Pellinore Castle! She too was a captive! The Baron, her liege, hoped to bind her to the husband of his choosing, just as the bear was now bound to the post. And her husband would surely be no better than the vicious brutes now unleashed and urged to attack the bear.

Alice strode away from the throng, away from the bonfires that cackled and threw sparks and flickering flames into the night sky. At her side her fists were clenched in rage, although she sought to keep her face devoid of emotion. She looked back, and was surprised to see Cord the keeper of dogs standing by the castle wall. Suddenly it hit her that Cord should have been handling the big vicious brutes. He scowled as he watched the fight. His brawny arms were crossed over his chest and his muscled legs were planted in a wide stance. Cord, though only a keeper and a felon's son, had the bearing of a knight. And he was so handsome. At his side sat an even bigger, tougher dog than those rushing the bear. The dog's name was Sebald. He was an imported Italian mastiff, and he was the most courageous dog in the castle, perhaps in all Wales.

Alice recalled now Cord's refusal to have anything to do with baiting so young a bear. He would pay for that refusal. But perhaps like her he knew what it meant to be a captive.

One dog snapped at the bear. Another bit the bear's flank. The bear spun to defend himself, and the leash jerked him short. The bear roared with bafflement. The dogs snarled, circling it. The bear lunged at the dogs. The leash strained tight, then parted. Freed, the bear pounced upon the nearest dog, killing it with a blow. People screamed. The young bear rose on his hind feet, roaring at all of them. Then something short and heavy hissed. The bear grunted, a crossbow bolt in his neck.

Sir Philip, the giant old knight, laughed in glee. The crossbow was in his hands.

The young bear sank with a groan, and the dogs rushed in to attack. Alice turned away in disgust and hurried into the darkness. With long, reckless strides she fled the bear baiting and the shouting crowd of spectators. She drove the sounds from her mind. Instead, she listened for people, for anyone who might catch her and report her deed to the Baron. On all accounts she couldn't allow herself to get caught. For too long she'd been held here against her will. Her father had died in a terrible night of rapine and slaughter. The Welsh had stormed their castle, butchering everyone. Thus she no longer had blood kin. Now the Baron could chose whom she would marry, and he wielded that baronial right like a club over his men. Alice was the prize, the ripe plum. Whoever married her gained the right to her castle -- for here in the Western Marches of Wales, in 1263, only a man was considered capable of running and defending a castle.

"They're wrong," Alice whispered to herself.

She looked around. No one was in sight. Carefully, she opened the door to the pigeon loft. A bird cooed in her nest. Others, in the darkness, rustled their wings. Alice unerringly moved to the roost where a special pigeon sat. He was Father Bernard's pigeon, from the Bishop of Canterbury's pigeon loft. If freed, this pigeon would fly straight there, providing no hawk caught it along the way.

Alice scooped up the surprised bird and hurried outside. She looked around once more. No one was in sight. Quickly, she took out a small strip of parchment and a string. As the pigeon cooed his complaint and struggled to be free, she tied the parchment around his leg. Her fingers felt clumsy and fear clenched her stomach. If anyone caught her...

A low growl alerted her. She spun around. Sebald, the Italian mastiff, pointed his blunt snout at her. A moment later big Cord the keeper stepped up behind the dog. He stared at her in surprise, seeing the pigeon in her hands, and then the note. His handsome eyebrows shot upward.

Alice licked her lips, readying a lie or a harsh command.

Cord spoke first. "I understand," he said. He wrapped his big hand around Sebald's collar. "Good luck." Then he turned and dragged his hound with him, striding out of sight.

Alice blinked. Then she blinked again. Suddenly she laughed, and she threw the messenger pigeon into the air. Although it was dark, the pigeon beat his wings and flew away. Would the message do any good? She wasn't sure. She hoped so. She laughed again, a sound of release, then one of pure gladness. It was good to know that not every hand was turned against her. She sighed. Too bad Cord the keeper was a felon's son and held so lowly a station in the castle hierarchy. He was so handsome, so strong looking and brave.

Alice sighed and shrugged her shoulders. Then she slunk away into the night, wondering what the future would bring.

Chapter One

Squeezed between Pellinore Fief and the wilds of Wales stood a forest. In this forest lived the King of Beasts, although he was neither lion, bear nor hulking wolf. Old Sloat, the King, was a wild boar, a monstrous pig with sharp yellow tusks. At one time or another he'd used the tusks to kill a wolf, a bear and even a man.

The man had died hard, on his knees, his teeth bared and knife raised. He'd tried to turn his crippled body and always face the King. In the end Old Sloat had gutted the man, the forester of Pellinore Fief, as he'd gutted so many other foes before him.

As befitted the King of Beasts, Old Sloat ate whatever he desired. In this he was much like a man. In his forest he usually dined upon acorns and beechnuts, rosebay, willow herb, hogweed and goatweed. However, to have reached his vast size, the ponderous ruler pounced upon wounded rabbits and gobbled down eggs and the young of ground-nesting birds. Nor did snakes or frogs survive a meeting with Old Sloat. Those too he chewed and swallowed and grew strong upon. Dead fish, in lean times, proved edible to this giant among pigs, while insects by the thousands, grasshoppers being his particular favorite, garnished his more usual fare.

Within his forested domain, eyesight counted for little. Shadows and streaks of light waged an uneven struggle here. Gloom usually prevailed, until the fall of night when darkness became supreme. The King of Beasts was unconcerned. Like all pigs he relied more upon his wonderful sense of smell and keen hearing than upon his indifferent eyesight.

On one particular gloomy early afternoon, Old Sloat raised his ugly head with its stiff brown mane shot through with white. His beady black eyes became glassy and his flat snout twisted ever so slightly.

Truffles! He smelled truffles!

With a grunt he broke into a trot, following the odor with unerring accuracy. Above all else he loved truffles, a potato-shaped fungi which grew in the ground.

A vicious gray animal wisely slunk out of his way. The wolf clearly wanted nothing to do with the King.

Old Sloat ignored the wolf because he lusted after those truffles. Truffles, truffles, truffles. That's all he wanted. To gobble them up, to gorge himself.

Then he slowed suddenly. A new smell made his flat snout twitch again. He smelled MAN, and just as badly he smelled MAN'S horrible ally DOG. He snorted and tested the scent further. Ah. It didn't matter. While he smelled MAN and DOG, he didn't smell HORSE. Upon HORSE dwelled the most terrible kind of MAN, the one who wore metal and roared with fierce pride. That kind of MAN had at various times tried to hunt him. That kind of MAN invaded the King's domain with his horrible ally DOG.

MAN ON FOOT, however, was nothing.

It was impossible, of course, for the King of Beasts to know the dreadful laws of Pellinore Fief in 1263. He didn't know that by law peasants, men afoot, couldn't hunt wild boars or even spear the deer which nibbled upon their hard-worked fields. Not even rabbits could be lawfully slaughtered and thrown into the cooking pot, to ease the ever-hungry stomachs. If a peasant did any of these things, and was found out, the man on horseback, the knight, either took the peasant to the chopping block to remove the offensive hand, or to the hanging tree to remove the offender altogether. All that Old Sloat knew was that the despised MAN AFOOT feared to close with him. Yell and swing his sticks, yes -- come near for the final clutch -- no.

Maybe, though, that's all Old Sloat needed to know, other than the wonderful smell of truffles. Truffles, truffles, truffles. He chomped his teeth together as saliva drooled from his jaws. Very soon he would feast to his royal delight.

Cord the keeper wanted the newly opened position of forester -- the old forester had been slashed to death by Old Sloat. At nineteen years of age Cord was tired of sleeping on the rushes in the main castle hall, and tired of sleeping with the hounds. Too many people thought of him as part hound himself. That, however, was only half the reason for wanting to be forester. In order to marry Bess, the miller's rich and quite beautiful daughter, he needed to have a prestigious job. Chief dog keeper wouldn't do. Maybe he had an uncanny knack with the hounds, maybe he was tall and ruggedly handsome, or so more than a few of the castle scullions had told him, but none of that counted with the ambitious miller or his wife.

Forester. He had to become Pellinore Fief's new forester. The bailiff had already given him the nod. Now Baron Hugh de Clare had to agree. Today, without the squire, the bailiff or any of his men to help, Cord had to move the baron's lodged boarhounds to Tiny's place. If he could successfully do this task, he could probably win the baron's agreement.

Even so, gaining that agreement would be difficult. Cord knew that, and he also knew why. Oh, he knew why, all right. He'd had a lifetime of learning the why, short as his lifetime had been. Twelve years ago his father had been a knight turned outlaw. Eleven years ago his father had been a captured outlaw hung from a massive old elm tree. That had turned Cord, a lad of nine then, into a felon's son.

A felon's son gained kicks, buffets and brutal beatings where others only gained a box to the ears, a stern reprimand or a wagging finger. A felon's son seldom had friends. Because of that the castle bullies had targeted him for their particular favors. Worse, Baron Hugh's meanest knight had often gone out of his way to thump Cord's head.

Reviled and picked upon, living in a strange castle without any protectors, the spirit within young Cord had flickered and almost winked out.

The only reason the baron had taken him in, Cord knew, had been to acquire his father's special boarhound. Even then Cord had had an uncanny knack with hounds and with that boarhound in particular. That boarhound, which'd licked Cord's cuts and bruises and who had slept beside him in the Great Hall, had kept a young boy's spirit alive. Old Hob, a drunken sergeant -- a horseman not of noble birth -- had told Cord to sic the boarhounds against his tormenters. Cord had, and he'd been severely whipped because of it. Yet...Yet the worst of the tormenting had stopped. And from that moment on Cord had determined within himself to become Pellinore Fief's chief keeper of the dogs.

It had taken him ten long years to achieve the rather lowly position. A felon's son could do nothing quickly. Bess had changed all that, however. Now events moved at a bewildering pace. At first he'd had to sneak to see Bess. Her ambitious and rather clever father had strict ideas about whom his daughter could see and whom she couldn't. Bess herself had soon tired of him. Until, that is, he'd shown her his secret ring.

Eleven long years ago they'd hung his knightly father as an outlaw. His enemies had jeered at his dangling corpse. They'd even dragged Cord near to watch. However, his father's enemies had also known fury. His father's golden signet ring had been missing. A year after the hanging, a visiting monk, a brown- habited Franciscan, had spoken to Cord at Pellinore Castle. The monk, who had been at the hanging, had pressed a hard, cold object into Cord's hands. It was his father's missing ring. Cord had been dumbfounded.

"Hide it," the monk told him.

Cord had hidden it that very afternoon, protecting it in an oily cloth and burying it in the ground. Perhaps once a year he'd dug it up and tried it on his finger, only to bury it again. That ring he'd shown Bess. She in turn had begged him to show it to her father, who had wondered aloud and appraisingly if this meant Cord was still technically a noble. That's when, by following the miller's clever advice, everything had begun to change for Cord.

The golden ring now hung from Cord's neck on a leather thong -- hidden, of course, under his tunic. Upon the ring was the image of a lion, his father's signet. Cord considered it his good luck charm.

As he thought of the ring, Cord rubbed his angular jaw. He moved down a trail with his long stride. He wore boots, leather leggings and a woolen tunic. On his belt hung an empty food sack and a big hunting knife. He smiled at the two black and tan Italian mastiffs beside him. They moved thick muscles as they trotted along. Each dog wore a spiked collar to protect them from bear or wolf bites, or from the dreaded slashes of boar's tusks. In all Pellinore Fief, only Baron Hugh's prized bloodhounds had cost more than the imported mastiffs.

Cord had brought them along for a very particular reason. He could hardly wait to tell Bess the reason. That's why he'd taken this long route, hoping to find her at the mill.

In 1263, there were only two mills on all Pellinore Fief. Whoever used them paid for the privilege. While Baron Hugh had sold a few peasants the right to grind their own grain, he hadn't allowed the same privilege with the fulling mill. Cord knew enough about mills, from listening to Bess and her mother and father that they brought in a lot of money. While the building of mills dipped heavily into the pockets of rich men, the returns from the rents quickly filled those pockets back up. Cuthbert Miller, because he had part ownership of the mill, had grown incredibly wealthy for a Thirteenth Century English peasant.

Cord along with everyone else who kept their eyes open knew that much of Pellinore's prosperity came from sheep. The fulling mill, built over six years ago, showed it. All over England and parts of the Western Marches had arisen fulling mills. No nation had more or better wool than England. With the new fulling mills the transformation from loomed to fulled wool occurred faster and more uniformly than in the past.

How many afternoons had he listened to either Bess or her mother and father go on and on about the fulling mill? They'd been countless. Why, he almost knew as much about fulling as Cuthbert.

The old way of fulling took a lot of sweat and labor. After leaving the loom, strong men took the wool and soaked it in vats. It had to be scoured, cleaned and thickened. For hours men tramped the wool with their feet as it lay in troughs, or they beat the wool with heavy, fulling bats. Cord had tried the old way once and had gotten a handful of blisters and sore back muscles.

The new way...ah, what a marvel it was.

Cord and the mastiffs, as they moved beside the babbling Iodo River, turned on a bend in the trail and came upon the marvel, the fulling mill.

The stoutly built wooden building rested securely on a foundation of stone. Even now the big wheel spun round and round and round as the swiftly-flowing stream pushed it. Cord stopped and watched, always amazed at the power of water. He listened to the hammer sounds from within, to the clack of gears and cams, to the shouts of men. Amazing! To let this wonderful machine do the work of so many fullers, ah, what clever men millers were.

Cord strode to the main door and peered in.

He saw a bewildering array of cogs, gears and cams. This was a tilt-hammer system, according to Cuthbert. A revolving drum moved by the water wheel caused wooden hammers to lift and then smash down against the soaking wool. One man, the miller, oversaw it, where once whole groups of men had been needed to do the work. Cuthbert employed two half-Welsh workers to help him move the wool. They also helped Cuthbert buy from the Welsh shepherds who came to Pellinore to sell. Few Welshmen farmed the way Englishmen did. On their hills and mountains they mainly herded sheep. Cuthbert was always bragging about what great bargains he'd made off the loony Welsh.

"Cord! What are you doing here?"

Cord waved to Cuthbert, a beefy man with huge hands. Sweat ran down the miller's face and his leather apron was wet. He must have been moving wool.

"I'm here to see Bess!" Cord shouted.

"Try the village!" Cuthbert shouted back.

Cord frowned as he stepped away from the door. He wasn't sure he had time to search out the Tanning Village. He surely didn't have time to go to Cuthbert's house and ask for Bess. Well, he had better waste no more time. He turned and broke into a trot.

It wasn't long before the Tanning Village with its customary bloody sour odor hove into view. The houses were bigger and better built here than in either the East or Pellinore Village. The reasons were the tanning and tawing yards, which brought the peasants here prosperity.

Cord peered over at the nearer yard. An old man with two young apprentices was tying a hide onto a wooden frame. Other men, working further down the row of framed hides, carefully scraped them. Still others worked at wooden pumps, pouring river water into sunken vats. There they stirred soaking hides with long sticks.

Two long low buildings stood to the rear of the tanning and tawing yards. There the tanners and tawers stored their cured hides, and there in stone crocks they kept their special chemicals. The tanners, who cured ox, cow and calf hides, used tannic acids or lime. The tawers, who cured deer, sheep or horse skins, used alum or oil.

Unfortunately, from the two yards and into the stream flowed dried blood, fat, surplus tissues, flesh impurities, hair and acid, lime and alum. Near the tawing yard stood the butcher's yard, and over a rise of ground were pens for sheep and cattle. Baron Hugh had decreed that no one draw water from the Iodo River until a mile away from the Tanning Village. Even so, the villagers downstream of the Tanning Village constantly complained about the corruption of their water. Pellinore Fief's best ale came from the East Village, which unsurprisingly was upstream of the Tanning Village.

Cord scanned the village for any sign of Bess. He debated with himself when he couldn't spot her. Should he stop at the house? No, he decided. He'd better worry more about doing his task than telling Bess about it. Therefore, he crossed the stream on the rickety bridge and trotted towards the East Village.

Today, without the squire, the bailiff or any of his men to help, Cord had to move the baron's lodged boarhounds to Tiny's place.

The peasants of Pellinore Fief owed the baron many services. The most mundane took them onto domain land, that land which directly belonged to the baron. There they planted, tilled and harvested his crops. Only after the baron's land received their attention could the peasants plant, till and harvest their own tiny plots of land. They also pruned and picked the baron's apple trees, mowed and brought in his hay, chopped and carted firewood to his castle, slopped the muck out of his moat every spring and lent their hands but mostly their backs when castle repairs were called for. In return Baron Hugh protected them from harm. Here in the Western Marches of Wales that made the trade about equal.

The lodging and feeding of castle-hounds in their homes, however, that obligation grated most upon the peasants. The hunting hounds stole precious sleep with their constant barking, ate more than the peasants expected, and unless fingers were carefully watched, the peasants lost some of those, too.

Usually the bailiff or his men, sometimes the squire, assisted the dog boys when the hounds were taken from one village home to the next. The bailiff or the baron's squire helped convince an unruly peasant that it was better to comply with the ancient obligation than to grumble and fight.

Tiny, bailiff or not, always complained. At least three times he'd savagely kicked a hound in the head and once he'd even punched a man-at-arms. The three days punishment in the stocks he'd endured in sullen silence.

Cord was supposed to take the lodged boarhounds from Old Alfred's home to Tiny's. The switch was three days early. Tiny was known to be at home because he'd twisted his ankle a day ago, and he always drank a lot if he didn't work in the fields.

Cord knew this was a test he was supposed to fail. He also knew that he didn't want to fight Tiny. The man was incredibly strong and hardly felt pain. It wasn't that he, Cord, was afraid...Well, maybe a little afraid. But only a little. Sergeant Hob had over the years taught him to box and wrestle and wield knives with skill. Nor of course did Cord lack strength. His bones were big and his nineteen-year-old muscles were lean and long and hard. His full weight wasn't upon him yet, but his shoulders were as broad as any man's was. He might even win a fight with Tiny. Of course, he might also loose several teeth or have his head hurt for weeks to come in the bargain.

No, Cord didn't want to fight Tiny. The reason he didn't want to fight, though, was to show Baron Hugh that he could make unruly characters like Tiny obey him through words alone. A forester needed to know how to talk to peasants, how to get them to do things without a lot of fuss. Upset peasants caused the bailiff problems, and that made problems for the baron.

Cord ran a big-boned hand through his hair, thickly blond in color.

The forester had several important duties. He restocked the hunting parks with captured wolves, bears, boars and stags. He told the peasants how many of their pigs could roam the acorn-littered woods. He also told the peasants whom, when and how much firewood they could chop. On a grimmer note, the forester stalked the poachers. The rabbits, deer, boars, stags and other game animals belonged to Baron Hugh. Only the baron or his guests could lawfully hunt them. Too many hungry peasants thought otherwise.

Cord petted the nearest mastiff. The hound wagged his tailless rump, causing Cord to laugh. Others thought of these two mastiffs as vicious, savage beasts. He thought of them as clansmen, as close friends. He'd trained them, lived with them and gone on every hunt with them. In fact, earlier this spring he'd been with Baron Hugh when they'd met raiding Welshmen. The mastiffs had pulled down one of the shaggy hillmen, and had helped convince the others to keep moving north. Word of this deed had passed throughout the fief with startling speed. Cord now hoped to intimidate Tiny with these two black and tan brutes, and through the successfully done chore win himself the position of forester.

Cord moved across the Iodo again, which wandered about the fief here, and trotted into one of the hunting parks. Once through here he would be on East Village land. Time dragged by. Finally, the trees began to thin out.

One of the mastiff's growled. Cord, knowing that the old forester had died near here, stopped and hissed at the dogs. They stopped too, although the smaller mastiff kept growling low in his throat. Cord was relieved to hear people talking. They sounded excited. He frowned at Senno. The smaller mastiff shouldn't have growled because of that.

"Stop it," he said, giving the mastiff's wedge-shaped head a shake. He hurried, and soon stepped out of the forest's shade and into the gloomy light.

Peasants (men, women and children in dirt-colored woolens) huddled around a man scooping earth from a hole in the baron's grainfield. The peasant on his knees laughed and threw up a...

"Truffle," Cord said. He grinned. Everyone loved truffles. Then he frowned. The peasants had found the truffles in Baron Hugh's field. Should he demand them for the baron? To bring back a bag of truffles might help him secure the position of forester. No, he decided. He'd win the post through doing his job, not through robbing hard-working peasants.

When they were finished hoeing here, he knew, the East Village peasants would eat a quick lunch and then go their separate ways to work their own tiny fields. Each peasant owned several plots of land scattered throughout the fief. Every day except holidays, week in and week out, a peasant trudged back and forth between his and the baron's fields, wasting a lot of precious time simply ambling along.

Cord strode through the field to the clump of happy diggers. Old Maude, a wrinkled-faced woman of forty-one, saw him. She scowled and whispered to the others. Everyone looked up and tried with varying degrees of success to hide their guilt.

"Good day," said Cord.

A few of them nodded.

"Maude," he said, "is anyone at your house?"

She closed the mouth of her sack, tying it to her belt. "Why do you want to know, dog boy?" Her rheumy old eyes took in the mastiffs. "You coming to lodge more dogs?" she asked sullenly.

"No, quite the opposite, in fact," Cord said. "I'm here to take away the boarhounds lodged in your house."

Maude glanced at the others. The man who'd been on his knees now stood up. The others shuffled in front of the hole where the truffles lay buried.

"If someone's at your home then I can take the dogs away," Cord said hopefully.

"Those boarhounds ate three of our chickens," Maude complained.

"Er...yes," Cord said. "That was unfortunate. I suppose that's why the steward said to take the hounds three days early."

"Three days!" she said. "It should be worth a week!"

Cord managed a shrug, understanding her plight but unwilling to speak against the baron or his hounds.

"Are you taking the pack to Tiny?" she asked with sudden glee.

"I am."

She laughed, spittle dribbling down her chin. "He'll knock your block off, dog boy. Tiny hates felons and their brats."

Cord stiffened, his handsome and rather clean face going blank. He knew they gauged his reaction to the insult. He shrugged again, but with more studied indifference. "I don't care what Tiny hates. He'll do the baron's will. Now, if you've gotten your share of truffles, why not send someone home so they can be there when I am."

Old Maude peered up into his face. "You ain't taking the truffles?"

"You work hard enough," he said. "I don't see why you shouldn't be allowed what treats you can find."

"Well spoken," the peasant with the dirty knees said, Lame Jack by name.

"And fair," said Old Maude, as if surprised.

The others nodded.

Cord turned and strode away before they said something that might embarrass him. The two mastiffs followed.

After twenty long strides a piercing scream made Cord twist around in surprise. The peasants bolted from the hole, which stood near the forest's edge. The bent old man, however, Lame Jack, hadn't run. He held his ground, a hoe raised high as if it were an axe. He shouted angrily.

The high-pitched scream came again, from Maude. "My granddaughter!" she shrieked. "He'll kill my granddaughter!"

Cord's eyes narrowed. Then he saw a monstrous, hairy beast trot out of the forest's shadows. The monster's brown and white neck mane bristled, and his long yellow tusks gleamed evilly. Small, piggish eyes darted back and forth as he grunted. The beast was Old Sloat, the crafty old boar who had slain the last forester. By his huge size and thickness Cord guessed him to be something over eight hundred pounds in weight. He was the largest wild boar Cord had ever seen. Almost as bad, he saw the rutting shields. Before rutting season, wild boars grew tough, triangular-shaped skin plates on their forward sides, just behind their ears and almost to their rump. It protected them from the lateral slashes of other boar tusks during the rutting fights. Old Sloat's shields looked to be coated with resin, giving it an extra thickness. No doubt he'd achieved that by rubbing himself against trees. It would be impossible to cut through the shields with a knife. Even with a boarspear it would be hard to penetrate.

To the keeper's surprise he saw something majestic in the pig's arrogant pace. That frightened Cord even more (for it was always easier to fear what you respected). But it couldn't be possible that Sloat was majestic. Cord had heard before that a devil lived in Old Sloat. Father Bernard had agreed it was possible. Christ had once driven devils out of a man, and those same devils had then inhabited a herd of pigs. Who but a devil could drive a boar to slay a forester?

Cord watched Old Sloat in a mixture of awe and fear. The monster went directly to the truffle-hole, ignoring the frozen little girl and the others shrieking from a safer distance away.

"Somebody save my granddaughter!" Maude screamed.

Lame Jack hobbled towards the frozen child. No one else dared close with the snorting monster that pushed his snout into the truffle-hole.

Coming out of his surprised and frightened daze, Cord roared orders at the mastiffs and drew his knife. Sunlight gleamed off the polished blade. Just holding the eighteen inches of killing steel gave Cord confidence. He knew the laws and customs of the fief, but his heart went out to the small girl. His two mastiffs barked as they raced at Old Sloat.

The boar looked up from his hole. The small girl took a terrified step backwards. Old Sloat grunted in surprise, perhaps not knowing until now that she stood so close. He charged her.

Closer to the boar than anyone else, Lame Jack hurled his hoe. It clipped Old Sloat in the side an instant before he reached the girl. The massive boar spun in rage, spraying dirt upon the moaning little waif. Lame Jack snarled his defiance, a puny knife now in his hands.

The mastiffs launched themselves upon what seemed like the unsuspecting boar.

The canny monster spun again, squealed in what seemed like glee and ripped open the belly of the first mastiff. Cord went cold with fear. Baron Hugh would whip him for allowing the mastiff to be killed like this. The second mastiff, bigger and more battle-wise than the first, dodged the bloody tusks that tried to rip into him. Boar and mastiff then squared off, each circling the other, looking for an opening.

The small girl shrieked and somehow broke the spell that had rooted her feet to the ground. She fled to her Uncle Jack, who picked her up and hobbled away to join the others.

Unmindful of his safety, only knowing that he couldn't lose two mastiffs, Cord ran up to Sebald and clicked a leash onto the spiked collar.

Old grunting Sloat, the enraged King, charged again.

Cord swore in fear, twisted and slashed with his long knife. Thick pigskin parted before the knife's razor-sharpness. Old Sloat squealed and slashed with his tusks. Cord's hunting boot, made of armor-like leather, parted as if it was made of silk. For an instant Cord felt the warmth of Old Sloat's breath on his ankle. Then Sebald raked his teeth across the boar's hindquarters. Old Sloat jumped away. Sebald tried to follow.

"No!" Cord bellowed, as he hung onto the leash. Although yanked brutally forward, he managed to keep Sebald by his side.

Old Sloat ran back to the truffle-hole. His dark evil eyes never left the madly barking mastiff.

Cord's heart raced and his breath came in ragged gasps. He was trembling. The boot was ruined, but thank God he wasn't crippled for life. If he'd gone down...

The monstrous grunting old boar eyed him, clearly ready for another go. The coppery stink of blood also hung in the air.

Cord looked away, afraid lest he entice the bloody beast by staring at him too long. His eyes lingered on the dead mastiff. That made him tremble anew. Flies already crawled over the exposed intestines. Cord was used to seeing his charges killed. Stags, boars and bears took a fearful toll of hunting hounds. But to lose such a costly hound without being on a hunt...

Sickened by fear of Baron Hugh de Clare's future rage, Cord almost vomited. He saw the forester position escaping him like a starling from a freshly cut pie. Taking the mastiffs along in order to awe Tiny now seemed like the stupidest decision of his life.

"You must run to the castle, dog boy."

Cord turned. Lame Jack, wheezing his onion breath, stood behind him, another hoe in his gnarled hands. A small bent old man in a dirty sheepskin blouse, Lame Jack was considered by the others to be a wise village elder. Cord knew he'd be worth listening too. Jack hobbled a little closer and closed a callused hand around Cord's wrist. "Hurry, and wipe away that blood," he whispered. "Don't let anyone know you cut Old Sloat. Someone might be telling Baron Hugh about it in order to gain his favor."

Cord turned his back towards the knot of peasants who touched the little girl in wonder. He wiped the blood off his knife and sheathed it.

"You lost a mastiff," Lame Jack whispered.

"I know," Cord whispered back, his stomach turning over.

"You've got to win back the baron's affection or face his coming wrath."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Jack squeezed Cord's arm with surprising strength. "You just saved my niece, dog boy. Now I'm trying to save you from losing what you value. Everyone knows you want to be forester, but everyone says a felon's son should never want such a lawful position. But I've just seen your heart today. You're a good man, dog boy, felon's son or not."

Cord swallowed away the sudden lump in his throat.

"I'll keep Old Sloat busy while you run back to the castle and tell the baron that today he can slay the mankiller. He's sure to reward the man who brings such good news."

Seeing the answer to his problems, Cord slapped Lame Jack on the shoulder. He took off his boots, since he couldn't run in the ruined one, and put them in the food sack hanging from his belt. With Sebald at his side he walked warily away from Old Sloat, and after passing a large oak tree and leaving the boar's sight, he headed for the castle.

Long years of coursing with the hounds had given Cord great stamina and had taught him not to waste himself on a short burst of speed. The castle was three miles uphill. A steady pace would bring him there quickest.

He shook his arms, trying to loosen the cramped muscles.

Old Sloat almost had me, he thought. If I'd gone down...Dead! Just as Baron Hugh's mastiff is dead. Maybe just as my chances of ever being forester are dead.

Lame Jack had said it best. Most people thought a felon's son shouldn't be forester, or anything that pertained to the law. Hadn't he heard the parish priest say before that the sins of the father would be passed on, yea, to the third generation?

Cawing crows jerked Cord out of his reverie. They cried raucously, flapping away from the half-eaten squirrel rotting on the trail.

Sweat stung his eyes and a spot under his ribs ached. Fear that he'd be too late, that Old Sloat would take himself far away from the field drove Cord on.

He topped the incline, turned left at a lightning-scarred oak tree and jogged onto a lush meadow. In the distance was a horse and rider. They trotted off a forested hill on whose summit perched Pellinore Castle, presently hidden from view.

Cord took his boots out of his sack and waved the sack above his head. The rider must have noticed, because the horse galloped towards him.

It wasn't long before Cord recognized them. The horse, a huge white stallion, galloped with pounding strength. He was Baron Hugh's prized destrier, his high horse, or war-horse. Strong, agile and fierce, Tencendur -- named after Charlemagne's famous destrier -- was a magnificent animal. He feared nothing, and in the midst of battle he was trained to lash out with his iron-shod hooves and bite with his strong teeth.

The hooves drummed, the white mane flowed, the fierce eyes centered on Cord. He heard the tiny saddle bells. At other times the jingling sounded merry. Now it had an ominous tone.

Long ago, Cord had stood frozen in a lane before a charging destrier. A peasant had tried to snatch him to safety, but had tripped instead and had his spine crushed by the murderous hooves. Cord had never forgotten the meaty sound, or the shock in the peasant's dying eyes.

Destriers terrified him. Instead of taking a step backwards, however, or to the side, Cord grit his teeth and willed his legs to remain motionless.

Richard Clark flashed his strong white teeth at Cord and brought Tencendur to a halt. Sweat glistened on Tencendur's creamy hide, and the rich, horse- leather odor was strong.

"You're a beauty," Richard said, patting the thick neck.

Tencendur did a little high step at the praise. Richard laughed, clearly loving his lord's horse.

The squire was a beefy, thick-necked fellow who had labored seven years in Baron Hugh's service. As the younger son of one of the baron's liegemen, Richard, unfortunately, had few prospects. The word was that Richard's knighting was to be delayed yet another year. Until he gained a fief, no matter how small, that could sustain a suit of armor, a destrier, weapons and the freedom from servile labor, Richard would not be knighted.

Cord felt that was unfortunate. For no squire tilted at the quintain with more zeal, traded sword blows with the master-at-arms with more fury, boxed, wrestled, hunted, played chess and practiced singing and swimming more than Richard. His declared determination to match Lancelot du Lac, the perfect knight of the Arthurian legends, bordered on fanaticism.

"Speak, Cord! Spill the news that sits so plainly on your face."

"I've seen Old Sloat," Cord said in a rush.

Richard yelped with glee.

"He killed Senno," Cord said.

Richard's round face grew puzzled. "Old Sloat killed one of the mastiffs?" he asked loudly. It seemed Richard could never speak quietly.

Cord gave him a glum nod.

"Was it because of something foolish you did?"

Cord, who trusted the squire, told him what had happened.

Richard touched the tip of his nose, a big, strong nose that dominated his round face. "You did the right thing," he said at last, as the wind fluttered his long brown hair.

"Maybe, but will the baron think likewise?"

Richard thought about it before he shrugged.

"I understand," Cord said grimly. He forced himself to raise his chin and put life into his voice. "But what if the baron slew Old Sloat?"

Richard yelped with glee again. "A splendid idea, Cord! A hunt!" He turned Tencendur with easy skill. "You gather the boarhounds at Old Alfred's. That will save us from waiting for the castle dog-handlers to run beside us."

"You'll only use one pack?" Cord asked in surprise, remembering how easily Old Sloat had killed Senno.

"We'll use Sebald, too!" Richard shouted.

"Will that be enough?" asked Cord.

"It's too late in the day for an organized hunt," Richard shouted, his excitement building. "We have to do this on the quick. You run to Alfred's and ready the pack!"

"They're still a little young," said Cord.

"No matter! Just have them ready! I'll bring Baron Hugh and his knights within the hour. If he slays Old Sloat, Cord, you'll probably be made forester before you can sneeze!"

With that, Richard Clark spurred Tencendur. The huge stallion pounded away, the tiny saddle-bells jingling.

Chapter Two

Cord blanched at the sight. Rage mingled with fear and combined with loathing. If Baron Hugh saw this...

He might go berserk, Cord thought.

Peering around the gnarled oak tree, the sentinel to the forest path, Cord saw the King of Beasts chew on the intestines of dead Senno. That seemed obscene, unholy, and blasphemous towards the proper order of things. Still, Cord had seen wild boars before catch and eat field mice, and he'd seen them devour carrion: deer, cat, bird -- anything really. He knew that many of the peasants' pigs ate all the refuse they could find. A pig, wild or domestic, ate just about anything. They were a lot like people that way. But to eat a dog, a vicious mastiff bred to attack bears and boars and wolves, no. That was wrong. It made Old Sloat seem...unconquerable.

Old Sloat yanked out another loop of intestine. The monstrous old boar chewed happily, grunting and getting his teeth bloody.

Cord turned away from the grisly sight. His fear mingled with hatred. He'd loved Senno. In fact, he loved all his charges. Dogs didn't care if your father had been hanged or not. They cared if you treated them right, if you groomed them, fed them, played with them and taught them how to work. He longed to spear Old Sloat, to right the injustice of Senno's slaying. He swallowed, and admitted to himself that Old Sloat wouldn't be easy to kill. Even the knights risked life and limb to chase the wily old boar, the eater of hounds and slayer of men.

Cord eased himself away from the tree, his left hand still bunched with the skin and fur of Sebald's neck. Sebald, better than any of the other castle hounds, knew what that signified: Stay silent!

Without breaking any twigs or kicking any rocks, Cord and Sebald made a wide detour, using the folds of the land to hide from Old Sloat. Cord knew that to face the old pig now, the strangely regal monster, would be to die.

In time Cord straightened, sheathed his knife and took out a rag to wipe the sweat from his face. He set a stiff pace for the East Village.

He passed peasants toiling in the various fenced-in fields. Later he saw women drawing water from the ford in the stream, and soon after that he heard the thud of an axe as a man splintered wood to feed the bakery's oven. By law the peasants had to bake their bread in Baron Hugh's oven, which cost them in loaves. The East Village's bakery stood near the stream. It was made out of bricks, a rounded structure with an iron grate. Crackling wood burned at the bottom of the outdoor oven. The baker tossed in a few more logs, then with a leather mitten he opened the grate and peered within.

The smell of baking bread made Cord's mouth water.

He kept jogging, ran up a small slope and came upon the East Village. A small collection of huts and houses and mazy lanes made up the town. Baron Hugh protected ten such villages. It had been over a year since any Welsh had made it into the village to do any burning. Last spring, however, English outlaws had raided the East Village. The bailiff and his men had tracked down five of the outlaws and slain them in their forest hideaway. The others had fled the region.

Despite its small size, the East Village bustled with activity and buzzed with noise. Dogs, cats, chickens, pigs and children roved up and down the muddy lanes, barking, meowing, clucking, grunting and yelling. From somewhere came the sound of hammering. From somewhere else two women sang, while from a third location a grandfather shouted at his supposedly lazy daughter-in-law. Cord saw the parish priest quietly talking to a small boy, then he saw a man with a bundle of reeds on his back trudge by on his way home.

Mud squished between Cord's toes. The lanes always seemed to be muddy. He passed shacks that looked ready to lean over into the mud, and the stench of dung was overpowering. Each yard was fenced in, and instead of a front yard they all had foul-smelling manure piles. The manure, in spring, was carted out to the fields as fertilizer. At the moment hens and pigs scratched or rooted in the manure piles or cackled and grunted atop them.

The biggest home belonged to prosperous Old Alfred. It stood near the center of the village. From within came the sounds of barking dogs, a lowing cow and screaming children. Cord tied Sebald to the strongest pole of the fence and slid past the manure pile, avoiding the rush of two piglets.

Before he could knock, Old Maude stuck her head out the nearest window. "Dog boy! Come in. Come in."

Cord lifted the latch and opened the heavy door. He walked into a large room with packed dirt for a floor. Children played, tiny piglets wrestled over a rag and a duck with ducklings stood in the nearest corner. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw several hens sitting on boxes. A hiss caused him to look up. Soot stained everything above shoulder height, while half-wild cats prowled above where hordes of mice infested the thatch roof.

"Alfred is away," Maude said, working to stitch up a torn shirt. "He's using his cart to carry firewood to the castle."

"No matter," said Cord. "I'm here for the boarhounds."

Maude smiled, rose and took one of his big hands in her small dry ones. "You acted bravely today, dog boy. I'm sorry I ever thought ill of you."

Before Cord could speak, a toddler stumbled out of the knot of watching children and hugged his leg.

Maude laughed. "Little Charlotte thanks you for saving her sister's life."

Cord reddened as he patted the toddler's head, more glad than ever that he'd dared face Old Sloat. The little girl smiled up at him. He knew a pang of wanting for children of his own and thought of Bess.

"Here," said Maude. "A strong man like you is always hungry." She pushed a sausage into his hands.

He thanked her with a grin. His running had made him ravenous. He looked around as he gobbled the greasy sausage.

A black pot hung over the fire in the fireplace, by the smell carrot soup was simmering nicely. In the far corner was a huge bed with a feather mattress that the entire family used at night. If guests came they slept there, too. Cord kept looking. A boy stood on a carefully constructed bench and slipped a hammer into the rack of tools. Maude shouted at the boy when he almost cut his hand on some shears. Then Maude glanced over at an older daughter who wove a basket.

After wiping his hands on his breeches, Cord followed Maude into the cattle- shed part of the house. One of the tiny stalls contained the lowing cow that wanted to be milked. Three other stalls held the pack of shaggy boarhounds, most of who slept. Further back were mows for hay, while at the very back were the grain-cribs.

One of the boarhounds spotted Cord and wagged his tail and barked a greeting. Others looked up and saw Cord too. Soon they all barked and wagged their tails. He laughed and let them lick his hands.

"They love you," Maude said, shaking her kerchiefed head. "Anyone else they growl and raise their hackles at. Killed three of our chickens, one of them did."

"I'm sorry about that," Cord said.

"No, that isn't your fault, dog boy. Brutes like these should stay in the castle, not be sent into common homes like ours."

"This is no common home. It's a mansion."

Maude beamed with delight at the compliment. And compared to many of the other cottages in the East Village, it was true. Tiny stuffed straw in his few windows rather than having wooden shutters like Alfred and Maude did. Nor did Tiny have smooth lumber walls, but wattles stuffed with moss and reeds. A strong storm could knock down Tiny's house, but only a fire would destroy this solid place.

Cord leashed the big boarhounds and petted and spoke to them as he worked. He didn't want to over-excite them or he'd never be able to handle them all. There were really too many for one man to properly handle. Maybe he should ask some of the peasant boys to help him. Thinking back to the monstrous old boar made him shake his head. Today would bring killing. He didn't want anyone's blood on his hands. Maybe if some of the bailiff's men were around, he'd ask them for help. They were trained for killing.

With his big fists knotted around the leashes, he said, "Clear the way!"

Maude scurried ahead of him, shooing away children, ducks and piglets. Most of the shaggy dogs were related to the boarhounds Cord had brought to the castle those many years ago. They tried to pull him this way and that as he hurried through the house. A cat hissed and chickens cackled with fear.

"No!" he shouted. "No!" He clenched his big fists harder and somehow managed to make it through the house without losing any dogs.

"Someone unleash Sebald," he said.

It was Old Maude who did. "Good luck," she said. "I hope you catch the mankiller."

Cord nodded, then he was too busy trying to make the pack go where he wanted to worry about anything else. The boarhounds barked and bayed at everything, glad to be out of the stalls. Several times he stopped to let them raise their legs and piss on posts and fences. The village dogs kept away from the pack, but barked wildly from around corners and behind fences. Sebald moved like an earl, ignoring everyone as he stayed near Cord.

"Hey!" a man bellowed. "What goes on there!"

Cord looked up, then yanked at the leashes as he said, "Heel!"

The hounds milled around him, sniffing, peering around. They barked back at the village dogs again.

A coarse-faced, thick-bellied man marched towards Cord. From the chair perched beside the small tavern and the leather jug beside it, Cord figured the village watchman had been snoozing. Harold, the watchman, was one of the bailiff's men, a peasant-deputy. He reported to the bailiff or to one of his lieutenants when they made their rounds from village to village. Harold was supposed to keep the other peasants from knifing one another and help break up their uglier brawls. His primary task, however, was to insure that the East Village wasn't taken unawares by raiding Welshmen from over the border, or by marauding outlaws.

Harold wore bluish trousers -- Baron Hugh's color -- a dirty woolen shirt that had once been blue and had a spear perched upon his shoulder. Twice a year Baron Hugh handed out blue-colored clothes to those who served him.

"Where're you taking those hounds, keeper?"

Harold's nose had been broken several times and his left eye drooped. He wore a blue cap and sneered at everything as if he thought that whatever anyone told him was a lie.

"You're making the village dogs go mad," Harold complained.

"There's to be a hunt," Cord told him.

"A hunt? Where?"

"Old Sloat is by the stream near the baron's field."

The boarhounds, becoming restless, tugged in several directions. Cord decided to make Harold help him.

"Baron Hugh's coming quickly," he said, "but without the usual number of dogs and handlers."

"How do you know that?" Harold sneered.

"I spoke to the squire and he gave me the instructions." Cord looked down at the restless boarhounds and shouted, "Heel now! Heel!"

A few of the boarhounds lowered their heads as if in shame. The moment Cord looked back at Harold they perked up again.

"I can't manage all these hounds without help," Cord said.

Harold laughed as if Cord had told him a good joke.

"Can you help me?" Cord asked.

"Me?" Harold asked in surprise. "What do I look like to you, boy? A felon's servant?"

The dogs pulled Cord to the side as the insult made his face burn. "Heel! I say," he thundered at the dogs. "Obey!"

More of the hounds looked down shamefaced. Some of them tucked their tails between their legs.

"They aren't trained very well," Harold said with a sneer.

"The baron wants Old Sloat," Cord said angrily. "If I don't get these hounds to the field in time and Baron Hugh fails to kill the boar, I'll tell him that you refused to help me."

Harold's sneer turned into a scowl. Shorter by a head than Cord, he probably weighed just as much. While much of his weight was in his belly, his fleshy arms and shoulders contained a good deal of strength.

"I'm not under your orders," Harold growled.

Cord shrugged with feigned indifference. "Suit yourself, but I'll tell Baron Hugh just the same."

Harold lowered his spear until he held it with both hands. His drooping eye almost closed, while his good eye squinted. "You looking for a beating, felon's boy?"

Cord controlled his anger and openly laughed in Harold's face.

Harold's face tightened and his thick lips curled into the ugliest sneer yet. One of the boarhounds growled. A look of shock filled Harold's face as he saw the pack eyeing him.

"Are you siccing your hounds on me?" he asked, his voice rising.

"Will you help me or not?"

"Those beasts hate me," Harold said, a whine entering his voice. "They'll turn on me if I try and take them."

"No they won't. Just quit pointing your spear at me, that's all."

Harold's eyes widened. "You're a devil," he whispered. "You've bewitched these hounds. No dogs watch over their handlers like that."

"Mine do," Cord said proudly. He'd long ago learned a simple truth. The hounds returned his love.

"Go on, leave," Harold said as he stepped back. "Get those hounds out of here."

"You'd better help me, Harold Watchman."

Harold looked indecisive.

"You'll just take three of them," Cord said, relenting, telling himself that Harold hadn't meant anything by his insults. "If you take three that'll be enough so I can control the others."

"Three?" Harold whined.

"Hurry up, Watchman. We don't want to keep the baron waiting."

At last Harold wilted, although he whispered as he leaned his spear against a fence, "I'll remember this, you damn felon's whelp."

Cord pulled the hounds near the watchman. Many of them began sniffing Harold. Harold stiffened. Two of them pushed their shoulders against his legs. Harold made a strange sound.

"Stop that!" Cord told the hounds, although it delighted him to see the watchman squirm. "Here," he said to Harold.

Harold tentatively reached for three of the leashes.

Cord divided the rest of his hounds evenly between his hands. "Let's go," he said.

Harold didn't move. His three hounds busily sniffed him, obviously making him nervous.

"Use your knees to knock them in the head," Cord said.

Harold gingerly did so. One of the boarhounds growled at him.

"Do it harder, with more authority," Cord said.

"N-No," Harold stammered. "They'll attack me if I do."

Cord stepped near and used the bottom of his foot to shove the offending boarhound. "Obey!" Cord told him. To Harold, he said, "Now start walking."

Harold did. The three boarhounds followed, and soon they pulled Harold along as they sniffed at the trail and strained at the leashes. Harold moved ahead of Cord, who controlled his hounds better.

Soon they were out of the East Village and moving past the bakery. Cord silently thanked Maude for the sausage because the smell of freshly baked bread was overpowering.

After several hundred yards Harold said, "I forgot my spear!"

"You couldn't carry your spear. You need both your hands for the dogs."

"I need my spear," Harold insisted, sounding worried.

"No one will steal it."

"It's not that," Harold said, his red face glistening with sweat. "We're headed towards Old Sloat."

"Does that worry you?"

"Damn you, man, of course I'm worried. Old Sloat killed the forester. That old salt was meaner than a she-bear with cubs. If a wild boar could do him under, then it can surely do the likes of us."

"We have boarhounds."

"Boarhounds! Are you daft? Old Sloat will kill the boarhounds. Then he'll kill us!"

Cord thought likewise, at least if no knights were present, but Harold grated on him. "Today Old Sloat dies," he boasted.

"By you?"

Cord looked coldly into Harold's eyes.

Harold tried to match the glare, but failed. He muttered, "You're no knight, felon's son. You can't kill the boar."

"If it comes to that, watchman, I can." Cord was thinking about Senno, about the old boar yanking out his beloved hound's intestines. Maybe, just maybe, the monster could be slain.

Harold glanced at Cord again and his laugh died on his moist lips. Before either man could say more, an olifant blasted its powerful notes.

"Baron Hugh!" shouted Cord. He told Harold, "Make sure you don't let go of those leashes. The hounds have to be released at the proper times and intervals."

The olifant pealed again. To Cord's trained ear, Baron Hugh sounded impatient.

Harold wheezed as he ran faster, and sweat poured off his face and soaked his dirty shirt. "How do you know its Baron Hugh?"

"I know the sound of his olifant," Cord said, as if explaining that he breathed by opening his mouth and sucking down air.

A different horn pealed, a horn higher sounding than before.

"That's the squire's olifant," Cord said. More horns rang. "And Sir Walter's, Sir Philip's and the Lady Alice's."

"You're a sorcerer," Harold muttered.

"Quit talking. Run!"

Cord put on a burst of speed. The lords and the lady wanted the boarhounds now! Baron Hugh probably scowled at Senno's corpse and swore his awful oaths. He would be astride Tencendur and holding the olifant in his strong hands.

Another blast rang out.

The olifant, the hunting horn, was used so the noble members of a party could find each other in the woods or upon the wide fields. If blown with power, one could hear an olifant more than a mile away. Cord saw in his mind's eye the olifant in Baron Hugh's leather-gauntleted hand. It was made out of ivory and chased with silver and gold. It would be slung around the baron's neck by a red- silk cord. During a hunt, the members of a party often became separated thus the need for the powerful hunting horn.

Cord ran up a rise and saw the hunting party mill in front of the woods. His boarhounds barked and grew excited. They knew a hunt was afoot.

Baron Hugh, a white-haired, thickset knight, sat astride Tencendur. He held a boar spear and wore a black lambkin cape. His face showed his rage: red, somewhat puffy, eyes bright with fury. Squire Richard spoke from the palfrey to Tencendur's right.

Each of the nobles, unlike any of the huntsmen, wore fur of some kind: The baron his lambkin cape, Richard his fox cape, the Lady Alice an ermine hood, the other two knights fur collars. Their clothes, again unlike the huntsmen, were clean.

Nobles, by and large, changed clothes daily, and the clothes they wore were of the finest craftsmanship. Almost everyone, peasant or noble, wore homespun wool. The coarse wool was difficult to keep clean. Linen could be purchased in the larger towns and at every decent trade fair. Cotton and silk were rare. Fur, however, rabbit, fox, marten, half-mythical Russian mink, could be acquired rather easily, but by custom it could only be worn by the nobility. Many nobles thus wore fur with the same passion with which they wore swords or kept falcons on their wrists: as a sign of their high station.

Richard, who spoke urgently to the baron, was as proud of his fox-lined cape as he was of the slender sword strapped to his waist. It wasn't yet a heavy, knightly sword, but a sword it surely was.

The other two knights and the lady also listened to Richard. Around the mounted gentry swarmed the huntsmen and a handful of hounds. Two young lads held the reins to the mules whereby, no doubt, those afoot had ridden here.

"Cord!" Baron Hugh bellowed.

A knot of fear grew in Cord's guts. He had to handle this correctly or the position of forester would be forever lost. He ran hard, wondering what he should say. He was glad to see the bloodhounds. With them trailing, the chances of finding Old Sloat increased tenfold. Had Richard seen to that?

Richard stopped talking to the baron and inclined his head. Then he backed up his palfrey and winked at Cord.

Cord inadvertently smiled.

"You grin?" Baron Hugh asked in surprise. "Tell me why, dog boy."

"Baron," Cord said, putting a note of confidence into his voice -- the run hadn't really winded him. "I'm glad you're here. Old Sloat slew Senno. Now you can slay him."

"You think so, dog boy?"

"He's gorged, milord. Old Sloat will be slower today than usual."

"Yes!" the baron roared, his face turning redder. "He's gorged on Italian mastiff. How did you let that happen?"

Cord swallowed and his throat tightened. When the baron was in one of his rages...Cord saw the brightness to Hugh's eyes. He'd been drinking. All three of the knights looked as if they'd been drinking. Maybe, before Richard had come with the news, they'd been at one of their afternoon drinking bouts. For the Pellinore gentry the long summer months, while waiting for baronial enemies to invade the valley, were times filled with boredom and therefore with endless drinking contests. Ever since King Louis of France, on January Twenty-Third of this year, had issued the Mise of Amiens (an arbitration between the King of England and his rebellious barons), nothing had been the same in England, in the Western Marches and therefore in Pellinore Fief.

"No answer, dog boy?" the baron asked in a menacing tone.

"He was protecting your people, milord," Richard said.

"Let him speak for himself!" Baron Hugh snarled. "I want to know how a dog boy who yearns to be forester could lose a prized mastiff to Old Sloat."

Harold, who had finally lumbered up, muttered something about a felon's son being a stupid fool.

Cord lifted his angular chin, the one he kept free of a beard. All his careful plans and honeyed words vanished because of the watchman's rude words. He would not bow and scrape before the baron with Harold watching. No, he would be bold like his father the knight had once been bold.

"Milord," Cord said, "this is the truth."

Baron Hugh's eyes narrowed as Cord told the tale, and he hissed when Cord said he'd slashed at Old Sloat.

"You actually cut him?" the white-haired baron asked in disbelief.

"Yes, lord."

"And it was your intention to cut him?"

Cord blinked in disbelief at what he'd just admitted. Perhaps he'd spoken too boldly. "Ah...milord, my intention? No, no, it was not my intention. I was simply trying to scare Old Sloat, milord."

Baron Hugh glanced at the other two knights. One knight was middle-aged, although practically a giant, while the other knight was a veteran of thirty-four. Both knights lived at Pellinore Castle with Baron Hugh, although both held tiny castles, towers really, that belonged to the baron's extended fief. By their noble presence they added luster to the baron's court and helped him in various ways as councilors, judges and hunting partners. The younger of the two wore chain- mail armor and held an axe. He often assisted the bailiff, especially in the bloodier affairs. The older knight, a huge and heavy giant of a man and Baron Hugh's closest friend for over twenty years, rubbed his well-veined hand over his bald head. Like the baron, he wore rough hunting garments and dearly loved the chase. Old battle scars crisscrossed his face, while shaggy gray eyebrows gave him the countenance of a bear.

"Don't you know that boars are reserved solely for knights?" asked the younger, chain-armored warrior.

"Yes, milord," said Cord. "I know that."

"Then -- "

" -- A moment," said bald Sir Philip, the huge although old knight. "Dog boy!"

"Yes, milord?" Cord asked, seeing that Philip swayed in the saddle. Clearly he was drunk.

"You know, of course," Philip said slowly and deliberately, his scars twisting as he spoke, "that Old Sloat killed the forester."

Cord nodded. Now he wished he'd told the tale with more humility. Sir Philip had always hated him for some unfathomable reason.

"Did you wish to avenge the forester's death?" Sir Philip asked in a soft voice.

Cord frowned, not knowing what to say, more than a little fearful of Philip.

"The reasons don't matter," Sir Walter said. He lifted his axe, his chain-mail sleeve clinking. "Old Sloat escapes deep into the woods and we chatter over trivia. Loose the dogs, I say, and let us kill this brute."

"Ah, but reasons do matter," said huge Sir Philip. "This lad wishes to be forester, yet given half a chance he tries to kill Baron Hugh's game. Even worse, he lets a costly Italian mastiff die."

"Milords," said Richard, "isn't this just a matter of a brave lad saving a little girl's life? We should commend him, and thank him for his courage in coming to tell Baron Hugh that worthy game is afoot. He knew the cost of his actions, yet he's dared to tell the truth. I, for one, admire his courage and his honesty."

"No! You're wrong!" Sir Philip said, his scarred face flushed. "He's a peasant who tried to slaughter the baron's game."

Harold, who stood directly behind Cord, snickered evilly.

Cord opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of what he'd planned to say and closed his mouth.

"He should be whipped for his impertinence," Sir Philip said.

Sir Walter shrugged, his chain mail clinking.

Baron Hugh, having listened to the advice from his councilors, as it was their duty to give him, lowered his boar spear and prodded the mastiff's bloody corpse.

"You've cost me an expensive Italian hound, dog boy."

"Please forgive me, milord," Cord asked contritely, fearing their belligerent looks.

"You begin to act as if you think that your blood is noble," Baron Hugh said.

Cord lowered his eyes, then his head. He heard Harold snicker again, and it made him clench the leashes with all his strength. His father had been hung like a common felon, but he'd been a knight. A knight!

My blood is noble, Cord thought to himself.

"...However," Baron Hugh was saying, "you saved a little girl, and after considering your options you ran to tell me of Old Sloat's whereabouts. My judgement is this."

Cord looked up.

"You will pay me Senno's purchase price."

Cord nodded as he groaned inwardly. Where could he find that kind of money?

"And today, during this hunt," Baron Hugh said, "we will let Old Sloat and Saint Hubert decide your fate. If Saint Hubert grants us victory and the cunning old boar is slain, you will be made into my forester. But," the baron said, holding up an admonitory finger. "If Saint Hubert frowns upon you and Old Sloat escapes us once more, you will be lashed twenty times in order to remind you that you are a peasant, not of noble blood."

Saint Hubert was the huntsman's saint. Long ago in the eighth century, or so it was claimed, the great huntsman Hubert of Liege came upon a stag who bore between his horns an image of Jesus Christ. The sight had so moved Hubert that he renounced his titles and joined a religious order. Cord flexed his shoulder blades. To be whipped like a peasant...No! His father had been a knight! That had never been clearer to him than today. He scowled, then saw Sir Philip watching him.

Sir Philip's scarred face tightened. He urged his stallion closer to the baron and cleared his throat.

Baron Hugh turned. He'd been speaking with the chief huntsman. "Speak," the baron told Philip.

"Baron," said bald Sir Philip, "I'm thinking back to a time eleven years ago."

"Yes, yes."

"I think the dog keeper grows overbold," Sir Philip said. "The earl must not hear of that or it may bring unneeded trouble upon you."

Baron Hugh nodded sagely, his red-rimmed eyes thoughtful.

Huge Sir Philip said, "Maybe the baron would allow me to add to the dog boy's punishment?"

"Speak your mind, old friend."

Sir Philip said, "Let the dog boy's offending hand be chopped off, milord."

The others gasped. Even Harold had the decency to look shocked.

Sir Philip seemed oblivious to them. He was saying, "A surer sign to the other peasants couldn't be given, milord. Otherwise, I'm afraid, the peasants may think that the slaying of game is a trivial matter to you."

"No!" shouted Richard. "What you suggest is barbaric! Only a Turk could say such a thing. This keeper is a loyal servant. To treat him as you suggest is ill- mannered."

Sir Philip's fleshy old face grew mottled with rage. His hand tightened around his sword-hilt as he shifted his stallion towards Richard.

Baron Hugh scowled. "Hold your tongue, squire. You forget yourself." He nodded to bald Sir Philip. "Yes, very well. I agree. Now please, good friend, don't take offense at my squire."

"But his words, milord, I cannot let them stand," Sir Philip said, his yellowed teeth clenched.

Cord felt faint, his knees weak. He wondered if he should make a run for it.

"I spoke the truth!" Richard shouted at Philip, his own hand on his sword- hilt.

"Hold!" Baron Hugh roared at him.

Everyone stared at Richard.

"You will keep silent," the baron told his squire.

Richard, with fury in his eyes, somehow managed to control himself.

"We will settle this later," Baron Hugh said to Philip.

"Yes, milord," huge Sir Philip said. "Later, as you say."

"And you, dog boy," Baron Hugh said.

Cord looked up, his face pale, his knees almost buckling. He considered sending his hounds at the footmen and making a break for it. To lose a hand -- He tried to swallow, all his thoughts in turmoil.

"You will lose your offending hand," Baron Hugh told him, "but only if Saint Hubert frowns upon you and Old Sloat escapes us once more. Only then. For I've already spoken in Saint Hubert's name, yes?"

Sir Philip nodded, although it seemed reluctantly.

The baron grinned down at the keeper. "If Saint Hubert smiles upon you, Cord, and you are to be the forester, then you'll need both your hands."

Cord managed a sickly grin back. He wanted to vomit, but he had to stay strong. Otherwise...No! He didn't want to think about otherwise.

"Yes, milord," he said.

The baron shook his long white hair like a haughty wolf, then shouted, "Release the bloodhounds! Let the chase begin!"

Chapter Three

Bloodhounds bayed as they crashed through the underbrush. Cord followed close behind despite the sharp twigs which jabbed his unprotected feet or the occasional thorns that made him curse. Soon the bloodhounds burst through the underbrush and rushed to the edge of the fief's major stream. There they lost Old Sloat's scent. Two bloodhounds immediately rushed upstream, the other two down. They snuffled through the reeds with frenzied activity, desperate to find the old boar's trail. Across the Iodo River, Clarrus Woods traveled up the hills into Welsh territory.

Richard reigned in his sweating palfrey. It was a high-bred stallion but lacked a destrier's bulk, training and savagery.

"The scent has vanished?" Richard asked.

"Old Sloat must have swum across the stream," said Cord.

"No. An old boar like Sloat wouldn't dive into such icy waters."

"An old boar like him is wily," Cord pointed out. "He heard the jingling bells, the olifants and the bloodhounds. He wouldn't hesitate to swim across the Iodo. Why do you think he's lived to grow so big? Because he knows when to flee," Cord said, answering his own question.

From upon his palfrey, Richard glanced furtively at Cord's hand, and then looked away.

"I'm going to find him," Cord said hoarsely, flexing his hand.

"Of course you are," Richard said. "We'll stay in the woods until he's dead."

Cord studied the Iodo River. The water was cold and treacherous. Winter snow run-off from the Welsh Highlands fed these swift waters. They tumbled later into the Wye, one of the major rivers of Wales.

Thinking of the highlands and the Welshmen there made Cord glance upstream. Everyone born in the Western Marches learned to watch for raiders at an early age. Mountain-bred warriors who ran from hilltop to hilltop constantly fought the knights who since William the Conqueror's time had marched ever deeper up the Welsh River valleys. From his mountain fastness of Snowdonia in northern Wales, Prince Llywelyn had gained control of almost all of free Wales. King Henry the Third of England constantly quarreled with his barons, and in those political struggles the English gave the Welsh their chance for freedom. Prince Llywelyn, piece by piece, stratagem by stratagem, year by year used the many chances offered him. This summer, with rebellious Earl Simon and his allies galloping back and forth through the Marches storming royal castles and towns, Llywelyn had done better than ever.

For a time both squire and the keeper listened to the bloodhounds and the huntsmen crash through the woods. The dogs barked in growing frustration. The huntsmen cursed. The knights, by their hoarse shouting, grew restless and angry.

Baron Hugh, like most nobles, passionately loved hunting. He disdained the taste of ill-fed cattle or garbage-fed pigs. Stags and wild boars, delightful venison, those were the meats he craved. Besides, his boredom vanished when galloping after game. No sport, not even hawking, compared to the chase. Only tournaments, maybe, brought the baron more joy. But they were such costly affairs. Even worse, since Richard the Lion-Hearted's Decree of 1194, the crown regulated tournaments in England. There were five official tournament sites in all the land. Plus, one needed a licensed charter to have a tournament and then a personal license to allow one to join in the game. In the end hunting proved cheaper than tournaments and easier to arrange and thus was the sport of choice.

"He swam across," Cord said.

"No. Old Sloat is too lazy for that," Richard said. "Remember? He killed the old forester in the hunting park."

Cord's chest tightened. His breathing grew difficult. If the trail wasn't picked up soon...

"I'm sorry about your hand," Richard suddenly said.

Cord shrugged, not daring to let the squire see the fear and rage in his eyes.

Richard urged his palfrey closer. "Look, Cord, you slip across the Iodo and run for it. We'll never catch Old Sloat today. Even if we catch him we might not be able to kill him." Richard paused, then said thoughtfully, "In the forests he's like a monarch, an unconquerable king."

The constriction in Cord's chest increased. He shut his eyes and tried to think.

"It's foolishness to trust your hand to the slaying of Old Sloat."

Should he run away? Cord wondered. Should he leave the familiar to rush into the unknown? Or should he trust Saint Hubert, who was a French saint?

Most of the knights of England were descended from William the Conqueror's French Normans. Many Anglo-Norman knights had only recently lost their French lands during bad King John's reign. In fact, French was the first language learned by most of the Anglo-Norman knights of England.

Cord's father had been of old Saxon blood. He didn't think therefore that a French saint would watch over a Saxon like himself.

"Look at you, Cord," Richard was saying. "You've got size and strength. Go join Prince Edward, or join rebellious Earl Simon. They both need fighting men."

Cord shook his head.

"If you swung at Old Sloat, if you dared to stand up to that charging monster..." Richard blew out his cheeks. "You'd make a splendid mercenary."

"No," Cord said, meeting the squire's gaze. "If I ran, I'd be declared an outlaw. You know that Baron Hugh has the right to make the judgment he did. He has the right of low justice."

"But it was such a foul judgment."

Cord said nothing, for what was there to say to that?

"Paugh!" Richard spat. "If I were a knight, I'd challenge Sir Philip over it. I'd say, if I win Cord keeps his hand. If you lose, I'll drive my sword through your stinking guts because of your foul suggestion."

Cord nodded. Trial by duel wasn't as common as it used to be, but it was still very legal. Usually, though, it was reserved for high justice, for those cases where lives were at stake. Here in the Western Marches the earls, or high lords, had the right of high justice. In their Great Halls, they sat in judgment like kings, giving death sentences if they so desired. It was part of their heritage, given them by the King as they struggled decade after decade against the hill-born Welsh.

The vassals of these great magnates, like Baron Hugh, were given the right of low justice. To chop off a man's hand was low justice since it didn't involve the taking of a life. If Cord ran, Baron Hugh had the right to declare him a wolf outlaw, allowing anyone to kill him on sight. Such a ruling, by custom, would stand in England, and of course it would stand anywhere within the Western Marches.

Richard stared at Cord, then he finally threw up his hands in exasperation.

Cord listened to the hunt. By their barking he knew the bloodhounds hadn't yet picked up the scent. Old Sloat had vanished. He had disappeared. Cord flexed his hand once more, wondering what it'd be like to lose it.

"Listen to me, dog boy," Richard said urgently. "If you make a run for it I'll help you. I've got ten pennies with me. They're yours if you want them."

Cord stared up at Richard in amazement.

"I know what you're thinking," Richard whispered. "But...Damn it, man! Don't you see that Baron Hugh has decided never to make you the forester."

"Why not?"

Richard shook his head. "I don't know why, but I speak the truth. What do you say?"

Cord couldn't think. All he knew was that he had to find Old Sloat!

"Cord?"

"No!" Cord said. "I've already thrown my dice. Now I'll stand by the outcome."

Richard sadly shook his head. "Ah, dog boy, you've too much pride. Maybe Sir Philip is right after all."

"Maybe he is," Cord dared to say. Then, with Sebald's leash in one hand and three boarhounds' in the other, he threw himself into the cold mountain stream. He gasped, but the chill eased the constriction in his chest. His dogs paddled; he waded. On no account could he let go of their leashes. The bloodhounds tracked. The boarhounds killed. It would be foolishness to let the boarhounds track ahead of the bloodhounds. They might not follow the right scent. The water deepened and his head went under. Icy liquid shot up his nose. He fought down his panic -- he'd dealt with such problems before. He pushed off the pebbly bottom, surfaced and kicked with his feet.

He saw that Richard rode upstream along the shore, following Baron Hugh. His head went under again because he wasn't able to swim with his hands. If he used his hands, or if he rested his weight on the dogs, their heads would go under. That would panic them, and more than just about anything else he hated to panic his dogs. His head went under a third time and he almost choked on water. He expelled air, sank to the bottom as he raised his hands high above his head, then he leapt upward and forward. The bloodhounds still barked in frustration as he surfaced. Huntsmen shouted to one another, wondering aloud what had happened to Old Sloat. "The dog boy's trying to escape!" a man bellowed.

Cord turned as his scrotum shriveled in fear. Huge Sir Philip, high upon his war-horse, eyed him with hostility from the far shore. The giant knight held a small bow and an arrow against the string.

"Come back, dog boy!" Sir Philip bellowed. "Come back or it's you we'll hunt!"

Cord could only gape in fear.

A piebald stallion thundered up to Philip. Upon the stallion rode the willowy Lady Alice de Mowbray. She wore leather leggings like any hunter (although of a costly purple color) a fine wool shirt that struggled to contain her breasts, a Welsh mantle and she gripped a springy javelin. Cord had seen her throw before. Whether mounted or afoot she was remarkably accurate. "The dog boy escapes!" Sir Philip shouted at her. He raised his bow and drew back the string.

Water gushed into Cord's mouth as he tried to yell that he merely searched for Old Sloat's scent.

"Don't be a fool," Alice told Philip in a scathing tone. "The dog boy wants the old boar more than you ever will. But it's I who shall slay Old Sloat!" She urged her stallion through the reeds, in front of Philip and therefore blocking his shot.

As Philip scowled at Alice, Cord spat out the river water. Her stallion plunged into the stream, spraying water everywhere. She laughed and spurred him forward.

Alice de Mowbray wasn't a timid maiden, a weakling cowed by hardy knights. In her veins flowed the same hot blood as theirs, the same urge towards adventure and acts of bravery. She, too, as a young lass, had listened to the tales of King Arthur of Camelot, Lancelot du Lac and Sir Galahad. She too loved to hear minstrels sing about Sir Roland and the Emperor Charlemagne, and hear them sing about the exploits of her ancestors in the Crusades.

Her father, who had been Baron Hugh's chief vassal, had owned much land and had lived in Gareth Castle to the west. Her father had never sired any sons. He'd treated her roughly, but he'd taught her to swing a sword, hurl a javelin and ride any stallion. She didn't ride sidesaddle, either. Few ladies rode that way during a hunt -- Nor was it exceptional that Alice de Mowbray hunted. While many noble-born maidens refrained from such adventure, many others loved to hawk and hunt as much as their knightly lords.

Now Cord was thankful that Lady Alice had decided to hunt today. But for her Sir Philip might have just skewered him with an arrow. His feet touched bottom. He waded ashore and his hounds dragged him through the reeds and onto solid ground. They sniffed around for Old Sloat's scent. Almost immediately they barked. The trail had been found.

"Well done, dog boy!" Alice shouted, coming ashore beside him. Water dripped from her leather leggings, but she was otherwise dry high upon her piebald stallion.

Baron Hugh roared orders from the other side of the Iodo. Bloodhounds, boarhounds and huntsmen ran for the spot where Cord had first jumped in.

"I'll slay Old Sloat," Alice boasted. "Never fear."

"Yes, milady," Cord said. She was very beautiful and had an oval face with full lips.

She laughed again, her teeth white and strong, her pale blue eyes filled with pride. "I'll cheat old Philip of his sport," she said. "You then will owe me a favor." Her eyes lingered on him.

Despite his plight, a sudden heat rose in Cord. He said, "I'll make a gift of Old Sloat's hide to you, milady."

She frowned. "Concentrate on the hunt, dog boy. I merely admire your courage, and that troubling honesty of yours. You should learn to tell your tales with more dissembling."

He nodded as he shifted uneasily. He hated this delay. But he had to wait until the bloodhounds trailed Old Sloat's scent. The sad-eyed bloodhounds entered the Iodo. Behind them waded the huntsmen. The knights and Squire Richard urged their stallions into the stream next, followed by Harold Watchman and the boarhounds.

Lady Alice rose up in the stirrups, scanning the forest in front of them.

Cord knew that the Lady Alice de Mowbray had been forced to stay at Pellinore Castle against her will. Three years ago in 1260 Prince Llywelyn had marched into the valley of the upper Wye. King Henry and Earl Simon had both been engaged in one of their more bitter quarrels at the time. Llywelyn had captured the royal castle of Builth and had besieged many other nearby castles with his hill-bred hosts. Gareth Castle, in a night of rapine and slaughter, had fallen before Llywelyn's butchers. Alice's father had died swinging his ancestral sword. She, fourteen at the time, had killed her horse galloping the entire night to Pellinore Castle. Weeks later, after the King and Earl Simon had patched up their differences, Prince Llywelyn had marched back into the highlands.

With her mother and father dead, and with no brothers or uncles, Gareth Fief had fallen to Alice. Although a truce had been signed between the King and Prince Llywelyn, Baron Hugh had insisted that Alice stay at Pellinore Castle.

"The Upper Wye is still unsafe," he'd said.

"But the fief must be protected," had argued young Alice.

"True. My son will be the castellan until such time as I can find you a suitable husband."

A castellan was a knight who commanded one of his lord's outlying castles. Unlike a vassal, the castellan didn't own the castle and could be replaced at any time for any reason.

Alice, everybody learned later, had argued heatedly that she was quite capable of holding her own castle against anyone, be he or she Welsh, Saxon or Anglo-Norman.

Feudal custom and Baron Hugh had disagreed. A knight, a man, was needed. As it would have been nearly impossible to deprive Alice of the hereditary fief, Baron Hugh hadn't bothered to try. Instead, he'd used Alice and the chance to wed her to whom he wished to lash his vassals into line. Since Alice had no family, by law it fell upon her liege, Baron Hugh, to find her a husband. He could hand the plum of marrying Alice to whomever he chose, a worthy retainer, a needed ally, anyone. Maybe custom said that if Alice paid a sum she could forgo his choice, but few maidens were so hardy as to enforce this custom against a strong-willed lord.

"Hurry!" Cord hissed at the swimming bloodhounds.

Perhaps he'd spoken more loudly than he'd known, for Lady Alice asked, "Do you think that you're the lord of the hunt?"

"What? Oh! No, milady. I'm just an anxious keeper."

"No, not just. Hob told me about you. Your father was a knight, wasn't he?"

His heart beat more quickly. This was dangerous ground. What had Hob, that drunken lout, told the Lady Alice?

"Yes, Hob told me that your father was a Saxon knight," she said. "One that made the mistake of taking on a powerful enemy. It seems you're the same kind of fool."

"My father was a good man," he said.

"Ah," Alice said. "I see. Sir Philip is right after all." She glanced back. The first bloodhound climbed out of the stream and violently shook herself. "I pity you, dog boy," she said. "What a waste to throw away your life."

"Don't pity me," Cord heard himself say, hating pity more than enmity.

Instead of showing anger, Lady Alice smiled. "I like your spirit. Pray that it will be enough."

"Yes, I'll pray," Cord said. "I'll pray to Saint George of England, not to Saint Hubert of France."

Alice's eyes widened.

The bloodhounds dashed past them and into the denser parts of the forest. Out of the river climbed huntsmen and the knightly steeds.

Alice's stallion pranced about and snorted impatiently.

Alice inclined her head. "Good luck, Cord. I can see that on this fief you're going to need it." She spurred her stallion and crashed into the underbrush after the bloodhounds.

Cord slipped out of the way as the three knights and the squire thundered after Alice. Leashed dogs and huntsmen ran in their wake. Cord joined them, toiling uphill. Fallen trees, thick oak roots and snarled branches made the going difficult. Yet it also made it difficult for the horsemen, enough so those on foot kept them in sight. Cord, as he panted, could never understand why more horses didn't break their legs in these wild chases. The nobles rode recklessly, often unaware of what awaited them past the next tree or thicket.

The four bloodhounds in the lead bayed joyously. Unlike the boarhounds, and unlike the mastiff Sebald, the bloodhounds ran free. Until Old Sloat was actually spotted, the other dogs would remain leashed. An excited boarhound, especially young ones like these, sometimes picked up the wrong trail. Then they became useless, or even worse, they split up the party. With a beast like Old Sloat, that could be dangerous. Yet it also entailed a danger for the bloodhounds. If they should come upon Old Sloat and be too far ahead of the hunters...For that reason, as the boarhounds dragged them relentlessly forward, Cord and the huntsmen ran hard after the nobles.

The excitement of the chase drove away some of Cord's fears. His strong legs propelled him deeper into the wild woods as his keen senses told him that the bloodhounds were on a hot trail. His boarhounds gasped as the leather collars half-choked them. Sebald had more sense, running exactly hard enough to keep pace but not so hard that he choked himself. Of course, he was built much heavier than the boarhounds. If they were fighting dogs, men-at-arms, if you will, Sebald was a knight among hounds. Like a knight, he seemed to act from a higher courtly code. The young boarhounds had no such qualms. They were simple brutes who yearned to sink their teeth in the fat old boar.

Catching Old Sloat, Cord hoped, would simply be a matter of time now.

Old Sloat the King of Beasts grew weary of running before the hounds. He was gorged on truffles, and more than a little upset at being chased from the nicely dug hole. Yet he had heard the terrible sound of MAN ON HORSE, the ringing peal that meant DOGS gave chase.

Old Sloat had little fear of the DOGS who bayed behind him. No, he didn't fear them at all. What he did fear was MAN ON HORSE. Perhaps fear wasn't right. Prudence had forced him from the truffle-hole. Prudence had bid him to swim through the cold mountain water.

Now the King wheezed. Now the King grew weary of pumping his short legs and crashing through the underbrush. Anger now washed his thoughts with a red haze. Maybe if he hadn't been so gorged and thinking about truffles, he'd simply sunk into a watery thicket and slipped far away from here. That had proved an effective strategy for time on end. However, he hadn't quite finished all the truffles. Even now, with death on his heels, he thought back to the wonderful taste of truffles. Truffles. Truffles. Truffles. His anger at being driven from the hole suddenly blazed into a wicked wish: to see all those who chased him lying bloody on the ground before him.

He turned, and hurled himself into a dense thicket of thorns. Because of his tough hide and his rutting shields he ignored the prickers. He broke through and whirled at bay. Here. Here he would make a stand.

He pawed the earth as he waited, listening to the baying DOGS. Once he even heard the peal of MAN ON HORSE. His anger grew. His wish to slay his tormenters became something he could almost taste. Then the sound he'd been waiting for occurred. DOGS struggled through the thorns, whining as they came. When the first one broke through, Old Sloat, the King of Beasts, attacked.

Baron Hugh raged at Old Sloat. His face turned scarlet as he shook his leather-gauntleted fist. Four costly bloodhounds lay dead on the earth before him. Cord and Harold Watchman had squirmed into a thorny thicket and dragged out the four mangled bloodhounds.

"Damn you, Sloat!" roared Baron Hugh. "Damn you to bloody hell!"

"He's a spawn of Darkness," Sir Walter said.

Sir Philip spat at the ground. "He's just a clever beast. Nothing more than that."

As the nobles argued, Cord wiped gory hands on his breeches. He couldn't stop himself from trembling. Cunning Old Sloat had turned at bay and slain their best chances of finding him. Now...Cord swallowed in a constricted throat. Just how close was he to losing his hand?

He eyed Baron Hugh. The white-haired lord of Pellinore Fief grew more wrathful by the moment. He raved about Senno, the slain mastiff, and he raved about a monster that would slay four costly bloodhounds bought from a Norse Irishman from Dublin.

"We must slay this beast!" Baron Hugh roared.

"Do you think we can, milord?" Sir Philip asked. "Maybe we should try another day."

"Are you tired, Sir Philip?" Squire Richard asked mockingly.

Lady Alice laughed.

Old Sir Philip shot Richard a promising scowl.

Cord feared for Richard then. The knight might be old and bald with a faceful of scars and eyebrows like a bear, but he was still huge, heavy and strong. Sir Philip was like an ancient oak tree, gnarled, twisted, maybe even brittle inside, but mighty until the rotten core gave way.

Cord nervously flexed his hand as he thought about the old knight. He must either run for it or try and get Baron Hugh on the trail again.

"Should I run with the boarhounds, milord?" Cord asked, stepping up to